We are all just pimps. And politics is dead. Was there ever a pulse in the space between two colors?
Let's not stagger into ready, let's not act like we're voting for him just because he's/black/back up off/ the tour/ and tan/ fantasy/
Caravan/slanderous version/pick me/pick me/pick your afro daddy cause it's flat in between--
Let's stare at the ballot with alien indifference, but crave it ferociously, and check ourselves-- cause it's a pristine wilderness, we're running it as running from it and everything else 'been done-- Interruptions are not even petty
Cut to the wide open pride of a knot in James Baldwin's voice as he's acapella, crooning-- no I don't love capitalism, no I don't even love a black president sometimes, and nah I don't love them hoes, but sometimes I love them both, so much/ stuff at this grocery store/ and it's always open-- precious lord, precious lord, lead me on
